


Karaoke Night

by loxleyprince



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, M/M, Sexual Content, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loxleyprince/pseuds/loxleyprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe Chandler sings karaoke. Ray Miles picks up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Karaoke Night

**Author's Note:**

> For Leyosura, who dreamed of Joe singing karaoke.

It was dark by the time they pushed their way through the steel doors of the Old Tea Building on the corner of Shoreditch Road and into the pizza restaurant that now occupied the first two floors of the property. The brightly-lit interior was warm and welcoming despite the interior design scheme paying more than a passing nod to the building's industrial roots, the concrete walls and exposed pipework sitting happily alongside the contemporary leather seats and steel and oak refectory tables.

Mansell surveyed the interior and let out a low whistle. "Oi! Kent! This is a bit posh!" He cast a meaningful glance towards the door before dropping his voice to add, "Trying to impress someone, are we?"

Megan Riley clipped him around the ear. "Play nicely, or expect more of the same." 

Kent scowled back at Mansell. "I like it here. It's..."

"Classy," Joe Chandler remarked to Ray Miles as they followed the rest of their team into the restaurant.

"Classy," Kent echoed with just a hint of smugness before turning away to scan the room. "Space at the back," he declared and set off in the direction of the indicated table. The team dutifully traipsed after him, their progress across the room hampered by the restaurant's many patrons.

"Is it normally this busy on a Tuesday?" Chandler asked as he undid the buttons of his overcoat.

"Not normally," Kent answered confidently, holding out his hand to take the coat and desperately hoping his DI wouldn't catch him out in the lie. In truth, he'd never been here in his life, but when he'd learnt that he was expected to organise drinks on his birthday, he'd wanted to go somewhere a little more up-market than the pubs near their station in Whitechapel. Whilst he certainly wasn't going to let the likes of Mansell bait him on his choice of venue (there was nothing wrong with a bloke wanting to better himself,) he really didn't want to have to explain it to his DI.

By the time the group had removed their coats and jackets and got themselves seated at one of the long refectory tables, a black-and-white-clad waiter was already hovering with an armful of menus. 

"Can I take your orders for drinks?" A pen was poised over a smart, electronic tablet.

"Ooooh! Fancy!" Mansell said in mock admiration, which earned him another withering glare from Megan Riley and the admonition, "I'm warning you!'

DS Miles' order of a pale ale was swiftly joined by a lager, a pint of cider, a white wine, a glass of the house red, a Guinness, and a soda water.

"Soda water?" Miles turned to address his boss. "Is that your idea of a celebration?"

Chandler dismissed the waiter with a brief nod and the criticism with a quietly-spoken, "I have work to do."

"So you won't be staying long," Miles groused. "I might have known." It rankled that his boss put so little effort into his social life. He knew that the man was lonely, that Chandler's OCD made socialising an ordeal, rather than a pleasure, but he also knew that Joe did not want to be alone forever, that he wanted to meet someone special and have a normal relationship, a normal life shared with someone who cared. Miles wanted that for his DI too. If only the man would make more of an effort to achieve it! He threw his boss a filthy look and a low punch. "It's Kent's birthday. After the year he's had, don't you think he deserves to enjoy it?"

Chandler's brow knitted into a frown. "I'm sure he'll enjoy it whether I'm here or not." He checked his watch and rose.

"What, already?" Miles didn't even attempt to keep the irritation from his voice.

"No," an unperturbed Chandler corrected him calmly. "I just need to make a call."

"Have you seen the menu, Skip?" Mansell asked plaintively. "Cime di rapa. What's that, then?"

"Sounds like something you'd get seven to ten for," Miles offered, though his gaze never strayed from the retreating back of his superior. "Or thrown out by the CPS because it was consensual."

"It's a kind of broccoli," Megan exchanged an exasperated look with the seventh member of their group, Dr. Caroline Llewellyn. "And before you ask, yes, they're always like this."

The pathologist smiled back at her. "My sympathies, dear." She'd been in the police force for long enough to know _exactly_ how it was.

"Well, if it's broccoli, why don't they say so?" Mansell persisted. "Why call it," he consulted the menu again, 'cime di rapa?"

"Because we're in an Italian restaurant and that's what they call it in Italy?" Kent interjected.

Mansell huffed irascibly and tossed the menu onto the table. "Oh, ha, bloody ha!" He glanced around the room, checking out the talent. "Foreign food. I hate foreign food. Why couldn't we have just gone to the pub?"

The waiter had just delivered their drinks when Chandler returned. 

"That was quick," Miles said as he busied himself handing round the glasses.

"No reply."

"I expect it's too much to hope you were calling a woman?"

Chandler's expression was silently eloquent and Miles sighed loudly. "Thought not."

Chandler reached for his glass and raised it in salute. "Cheers, Emerson. Happy birthday."

Kent reciprocated with a shy smile and took a sip from his own glass.

"Good God!" Chandler exclaimed. "What's this?" He scrutinised the contents of his glass, sniffing at it suspiciously.

"What's wrong with it, sir?" Kent's expressive face was twisted with concern. 

"Well, it's not soda water."

Mansell was not convinced. "It looks like soda water."

Chandler threw him an irritated glance him and took another sip. "I'm not disputing there's soda water in it, but there's also vodka and..." he took another sip, "lime."

Riley consulted the drinks menu. "Sounds like they mixed up the drinks-order and got you a "Grey Goose". She handed the menu to Chandler so he could see. "Second from the bottom, sir."

Miles read over his shoulder. "Nine quid! That's some mistake!"

"So much for their fancy technology," Mansell took a swig of his Guinness. "You don't have these problems in a pub."

Kent glared at him before turning to address his boss. "Shall I order you another one, sir?"

"Actually no. It's rather good." Chandler smiled reassuringly at the youngest member of his team and was rewarded with a tentative smile. "Really." He took another sip to reinforce his words. "I can always take a cab back." Kent's smile broadened.

Miles watched unobtrusively as Chandler gazed around the room, his expression of amused ambivalence faltering as he took in the press of people, the unremitting hubbub of conversation and the boisterous hen-party that had taken over the whole of the opposite corner of the restaurant. Chandler's hand slipped into his pocket and Miles knew it would be fingering the small pot of Tiger Balm he kept there for when his OCD could not be ignored. Poor bastard. Doubtless the man was already fighting the urge to make his excuses and run so he could retreat to the peaceful solitude of his office. He huffed out a sigh of resignation. Maybe the alcohol would help. It usually did...

Raucous laughter drew Miles’ attention back to the hen-party and from there to something else that pricked his curiosity. "What's that in the corner?" The others followed his gaze. "It looks like some sort of stage with a screen behind it. Kent?"

Everyone looked at Kent, who looked back at them with an expression that mixed consternation and horror in equal measure. "I'll ask." He was halfway across the room when Mansell's voice carried to him.

"Is it just me or do you get the impression he’s never been here before?"

Groaning softly, Kent carried on walking.   

***

"Karaoke?" Mansell's voice was tinged with mirth. "Seriously?"

Kent nodded unhappily. Mansell grinned wolfishly. "Finally, this evening's looking up!" 

DI Chandler reached for his glass and drained it, the vodka sending a surge of warmth through his stomach. He consulted his watch again and wondered if it was too soon to try calling Commander Anderson again.

"Go on," Miles said wearily. "I’ll watch this lot." 

When he was sure that Chandler was out of earshot, Miles rounded on Kent. "What were you thinking, ordering that cocktail for the guv?"

"I didn't!" Kent retorted, aggrieved. "It must have been one of the others!" He glared accusingly at Mansell. 

"Don't look at me - I've not got nine quid to butter up the boss!"

"Well, if it wasn't either of you two, who did order it?" Miles wanted to know. "Places like this don't make expensive mistakes like that and stay in business."

"Maybe the bar staff are new - or disgruntled?" Buchan suggested.

"Or maybe some bird fancies him?" Mansell offered, adding, sotto voce, "Or some bloke?" Though Kent glared daggers at him, Mansell was undeterred. "You ever seen him with a bird?"

"What, a live one?" Riley thought carefully. "Not recently. There was that SOCO who took a fancy to him. She was keen." 

"Oh, I remember her," Llewellyn confirmed with a nod. "Very keen."

"Then there was that DI," Riley added. "Oh, what was her name?"

"Norrow? Norry?" Llewellyn suggested. It was clear that the ladies were warming to the subject and Miles rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Norroy! That's the one!" Riley agreed enthusiastically. "She seemed his type, not that it came to anything. Oh, and then there was that poor psychiatrist..."

"All right, all right," Miles had heard quite enough. "Give the man a little privacy! How'd you like to have your love life discussed in public?"

"Wouldn't bother Kent, Skip," Mansell said into his beer. "He doesn't have one." 

Kent glowered at him. "And what would you know about it?"

"I know your best friend's your right hand," Mansell jeered. "Inseparable, the two of you are." 

"Enough!" Miles snapped. "Shut it, the both of you." He glared the others into silence. "This is the first night out that hasn't involved ferrying Judy or the kids about in God knows how long and I'm not letting the likes of you," he glared at Mansell, "spoil it."

Mansell had the great good sense to say nothing, though it did little to mollify the aggrieved Kent. When the waiter returned to their table and placed a second cocktail on the table, Miles felt his blood pressure rising. "So who ordered that, then?" he demanded of the bemused waiter.

"That one I _did_ order," Kent admitted through gritted teeth, his chin lifting defiantly, daring Mansell to comment, "But only because he liked the first one, and it's my birthday and I'm _supposed_ to get the drinks in."

Mansell was already breathing in to deliver a stinging rejoinder when Miles kicked him under the table. Hard. It was provident then, that Chandler chose that moment to return, forestalling further comment and, more importantly, any form of retaliation. Re-taking his seat, the DI asked brightly, "So, what have I missed?"

Miles used the ensuing silence to push the cocktail glass towards him. Chandler raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Who do you think?" Miles said with resignation.

Chandler swivelled in his chair. "Thank you, Kent. But this has to be the last one."

Kent flashed him another shy smile. "Yes, sir."

Chandler reached for his drink and took a sip, savouring the flavour. "It's really not bad at all." 

***

By the time the waiter arrived with their main courses, Miles was wishing they _had_ gone to a pub. The karaoke was in full swing and the noise in the restaurant had risen to such a level as to make casual conversation all but impossible. Mansell had wandered over to the hen party and been made welcome there, frequently draping himself over a buxom blonde to make himself heard, or so Miles assumed. Buchan was regaling Kent with a lurid tale of the murder of a prostitute in New York city in 1836 and Llewellyn and Riley had settled in over an iphone and a bag of knitting respectively, the latter eliciting a round of good-humoured ribbing until she'd explained that her sister was expecting again.

Chandler had stopped speaking entirely after the second song, his gaze riveted to the small stage in the far corner of the room. Miles had given up trying to coax the man into conversation and nursed his ginger ale with a martyred expression on his face. And to think, he'd had such high hopes for the evening. No kids to ferry about. No late night pick-ups from the old folk's home where Judy was a care assistant. No night-time feeds because her sister had the baby for the night. It should have been bliss. He sighed heavily and reached for his glass again. 

Mansell swaggered back to the table, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"You look pleased with yourself," Miles remarked.

Mansell's grin broadened. "I am. Got the phone numbers of two of the girls and I'll be giving Cecilia,” he paused for dramatic effect, “a lift home." From his smug grin it was clear that a lift home wasn't the only thing he intended giving Cecilia.

"Which one's Cecilia?" Miles asked, more to make conversation than because he was interested.

"The blonde with the big boobs," Mansell confirmed. Turning, he gave the girl in question a quick wave which was received with a giggle and an answering wave.

Riley eyed him reprovingly. "Your divorce through, then?"

Mansell shrugged off the admonition. "As good as. Free as a bird, me." He glanced down at the pizzas laid out on heated stones on the table and groaned aloud. “Anchovies! Who ordered anchovies? You know they give me a rash!"

Miles eyed him wryly. "That's not the anchovies." Mansell’s face screwed up in mock amusement. Kent fought to hide a smile. "You want to get that seen to, Finlay," Miles continued, straight-faced. "Could be something nasty."

Kent sniggered and Mansell glared at him, his words drowned out by a round of applause. As the previous singer made their way back from the stage to rejoin their friends, the Master of Ceremonies stepped forward to introduce the next performer.

"And our next singer will be.... Emerson Kent!"

Kent's cider sprayed over the table. 

"Oh, tell me you didn’t!" Miles rounded on Mansell.

"What?” Mansell countered, unabashed. “He said he used to sing at Uni!"   

"Gilbert and Sullivan!" Riley chipped in reproachfully. "It's hardly the same thing!"

"You bastard!" Kent was white-faced as he glared at Mansell.

"Emerson Kent?" the compare announced again.

"Over here!" Mansell called, pointing to the horrified Kent before turning back to address the table. "Look, singing is singing! Unless he was lying about his 'Am. Dram.' forays, he'll be fine!" 

"Yes, he will," Chandler said confidently. It was the first thing he’d said in over an hour and it drew everyone’s attention. 

"Sir?" Kent still looked stricken. Chandler rose to stand beside him.

"You'll be fine," the DI said earnestly. "You've got a nice voice and I know you can do this. I have confidence in you." He tapped a finger on Kent's chest to emphasise his words.

"You... you do, sir?" Kent stammered.

“I do, Kent.” Chandler was most emphatic in his assurance. “You'll be fine."

Kent rose from the table as if in a dream. "If you say so, sir."

Miles was open-mouthed with surprise. "Boss, I'm not sure this is..."

Chandler silenced him with a ferocious "Shush!" Miles blinked in surprise.

"Go on, Kent!" Chandler smiled encouragingly at the youngest member of his team. "Your audience awaits!"     

Kent swallowed hard and looked towards the hen-party. The hens looked back at him, expectantly.

"Come on!" Chandler said brightly, taking hold of Kent's arm. "I'll go with you." Then he was striding across the room in the direction of the stage with the reluctant Kent in tow.

Miles watched them go. "Did we just enter the Twilight Zone?" he muttered incredulously. "What's got into him?"

Mansell sat back with a satisfied grin and reached for his drink. "Dunno, Skip. But whatever it is, I think I want one."

***

_"Summer lovin', had me a blast."_

Kent's tenor voice was accurate but hesitant.

_"Summer lovin', happened so fast."_

The man’s eyes were like saucers and fixed unwaveringly on the face of his DI who had positioned himself adjacent to the stage and was seemingly oblivious to the impact his presence was having on the hen-party.

_"Met a girl, crazy for me,"_

Kent’s embarrassment increased as he sang.

_"Met a boy, cute as can be,"_

Mansell howled with laughter.

"I can't do this, sir!" Kent appealed to Chandler, his cheeks flaming.

"Of course, you can," Chandler insisted. Turning to the busty blonde standing on his right, he took hold of her arm, steered her onto the stage and pushed her in the direction of Kent. "This young lady will sing with you."

Fortified by most of a bottle of Chianti, three limoncellos and a genuine desire to help the darkly-handsome singer out of what he appeared to think was a tight spot, Cecilia threw herself into the performance with enthusiasm and aplomb, picking up the lyrics with ease and happily sharing the microphone with a clearly grateful and much-relieved Kent.

_"Summer sun, something's begun, but oh, those summer nights!"_

The whole hen-party joined in the chorus, and after that, it was plain sailing for Emerson and Cecelia. By the end of the song they were both smiling broadly. Buoyed by the enthusiastic support of the hens, Kent even had the confidence to go for the high notes and hit every one, to the delight of the diners.

As the song ended, the restaurant erupted in applause and no-one clapped harder or was more vocal in their appreciation than DI Joseph Chandler.

Emerson Kent basked in the glory of his idol's approbation and was still smiling from ear to ear when Cecilia pressed her phone number into his hand and whispered into his ear, "Tell your friend, Finlay, he's got no chance if you're available." Then she kissed him full on the lips and added, "Call me!"

***

A long-limbed beauty with a flawless complexion and an immaculate bob of auburn hair disengaged herself from the melee that was now the hen-party and turned her attention to Chandler. "Mmm, you're gorgeous!"

"Really?" Chandler's surprise was genuine. "Joe Chandler." The hand he held out was warmly shaken and not then released. "And you are?" 

"Seriously impressed." The words were accompanied by a flirtatious smile.

"Interesting name." Joe's expression was thoughtful. "Should I call you 'Seri', or are you more of an 'Imp'?"

Kent's jaw dropped open.

"Definitely more of an imp," the chestnut-haired beauty said with a beguiling smile, "And occasionally, something of a devil. Felicity Hudson."

Chandler found himself utterly captivated. "Pleased to meet you, Felicity." 

"I think we should be getting back, sir," Kent said with a frown.

"Sir?" Felicity's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Kinky!"

"Oh, it's..." Joe couldn't help smiling. "It's not what you think."

"He's my boss," Kent said tersely.  

"Oh, I'm sure he is," Felicity agreed with a nod. "I'll bet you do everything he tells you to."

"I do not!" Outraged by the implication, Kent turned imploring eyes towards his DI. "Tell her, sir!"

Which seemed to amuse Chandler even more. Almost apologetically he replied, "Actually, Kent, you do."

Kent's face crumpled.     

"I thought as much," Felicity's said with a smile of satisfaction which served to further compound Kent's distress. "That's quite the little sub/dom vibe you've got going on there."

 "No, you don't understand," Chandler started to explain, only to find an immaculately-manicured finger pressed firmly against his lips.

"No need to explain," Felicity reassured him with a brilliant smile. "I don't judge. Whatever floats your boat is fine."

 "No, really..." Joe tried again, but again Felicity interrupted him, her gaze fearless and very much interested.

"The question I’d like answered is whether there’s room in your boat for me?"

Chandler's smile broadened. "Oh, I think we could squeeze you in."

Felicity's laughter set Kent's teeth on edge.

"I rather hoped you'd say that."

A busty blonde wearing a tiara and a sash bearing the slogan "Buy me a shot - I'm tying the knot" came to stand at Felicity's side.

"Fee, are you going to sing now? They’re waiting."

Felicity entwined her arm with Joe's and turned him towards the stage. "I'm not, but Joe will, won't you, Joe?"

Chandler's smile faltered. "Oh, I don't think so. It's not really my style."

"Joe!" Felicity chided playfully. "Carpe diem!" Her husky voice was ardent in its encouragement. "You might surprise yourself!"

Chandler paused to consider her words, "I might, mightn't I?"

A stunned Kent just stared at him. Felicity patted Joe’s arm affectionately. "And I know just the song for you, although this..." her eyes glowed warmly as her fingers slid smoothly over the front of his shirt and gently tugged on his tie, "will never do."

"No?" Chandler questioned guilelessly, matching her smile.

She held his gaze, slowly ran her tongue around her lips and purred, "Absolutely not." Her other hand went to the buttons of his shirt.

Sensing defeat, Kent set off to fetch reinforcements.  

***

Ignoring the plaudits from Riley and Llewellyn and Mansell's mostly good-natured teasing, Kent threw himself into his seat and turned to face Ray Miles. 

"The Guv's in trouble."

"What sort of trouble?" The contents of Miles' glass slopped onto the table. 

"Some bird's chatting him up."

"And how, exactly, is that trouble?" Miles’ expression was quizzical. He glared at Mansell to forestall any smart-arsed comments but the man was too busy laughing to speak.

"Oh, Sweetie,” Megan Riley said kindly to Kent, “we need to have a talk about this." She gave his hand an affectionate pat. Kent shrugged it off with a scowl.

"He's letting her!"

"Again, how is that trouble?" Miles shook his head in disbelief and reached for his drink.

"She was all over him, Skip, and he was letting her!"

"Em," Riley's voice was laced with gentle concern. "You shouldn't let it bother you."

"You don't understand!" Kent protested, his frustration mounting. "He's not himself! He said he was going to sing!"

Silence descended on the table. 

"Sing?" Miles' tone was openly incredulous. Mansell’s was downright disparaging. “You're having a laugh! There's not a snowball's chance in hell the Guv’d..."

 _"Since my baby left me..."_

Six heads snapped round to stare at the stage.

 _"I've found a new place to dwell..."_

"Oh my God!" Miles breathed.

"Told you," Kent said wearily. "Told you he was in trouble."

_"It's down at the end of lonely street called Heartbreak Hotel..."_

Golden in the spotlight, Chandler was standing centre-stage and crooning into the microphone, tie gone, hair tousled, and shirt open to the waist to reveal a shocking amount of torso and a spectacularly-muscled stomach, to the raucous delight of the hen party.

"Tell me I am not seeing this," moaned a stunned Miles.

"Oh, you're seeing it," Buchan confirmed, his eyes riveted to the stage. "Believing it is another matter entirely."

_"I feel so lonely I could die..."_

A sexy swivel of Chandler's lean hips elicited squeals of delight from the ecstatic hens.

_"Although it's always crowded, you still can find some room..."_

Try as he might, Kent couldn't seem to close his mouth. Breathing was also proving a challenge, he noted absently. For Miles, it was like witnessing a car crash, and he watched with the same, horrified fascination.

_"You make me so lonely baby, I get so lonely, I get so lonely I could die..."_

The voice was unfaltering, sorrowful and expressive, but the impact of the performance was not because the man could carry a tune (he could) or put on a show (he could do that too) or because he had the face and body of a god (bloody hell, where had _that_ come from?) but because of the honesty of the emotions he was revealing. "Jesus Christ," Ray Miles muttered under his breath. Joe was baring his soul to the world and he was probably the only person in the room who realised it.

"Fuck!" Mansell was rummaging furiously in his jacket pockets. “Yes!” he hissed triumphantly as he held up his phone. "Wait 'til they see this down at the station!"

Miles snatched it from his hand. "You show this to anyone and I'll have you back in uniform so fast you'll get friction burns from the fabric!"

"Oi! That's private property, that is!" Mansell complained, trying to snatch the phone back. 

"You'll get it back later," Miles snarled as he pocketed it. He rose to his feet. "I'm going to stop this."

"I fear there'll be a riot if you do," Buchan cautioned, gesturing in the direction of the hen party. "You'll have to get past that lot first and, frankly, I don’t give much for your chances."

"He's making a fool of himself!" Miles hissed in exasperation, dragging a hand through his hair.     

"Actually, I don't believe he is," Buchan countered calmly. "Admittedly, this is not the Joe Chandler we’re used to, but so far all he's done is an impressive cover of an Elvis classic and exposed an equally impressive physique. It's nothing he need be ashamed of." 

"So far," Miles' repeated pointedly. "But he's not himself and that makes me nervous." His expression hardened. "Everything about this smells."

"Ed has a point, Ray," Llewellyn broke in, "And making a scene is not going to help. Let him finish the song and then get him back here as quietly as possible, eh?"

"So he’s finally letting his hair down, where's the harm in that, Skip?" This, unexpectedly, from Mansell. "I say let him have some fun."

_"I'll be so lonely baby, well I'm so lonely, I feel so lonely I could die..."_

Another suggestive swivel of Chandler's hips; more squeals from the hen-party.

"Maybe he'll pull a bird," Mansell said brightly, mercifully oblivious to the glare Kent threw in his direction. "Poor sod could probably do with a good shag."

Miles drew a hand across his face to hide his frustration and sat back down. Maybe the others were right. Maybe he was over-reacting. Being over-protective. "All right. But if any more of his clothing comes off, he's off that stage whether they," he gestured towards the gaggle of girls who had gathered around the stage, "like it or not."

"On the subject of clothing, you'd never have said that underneath those gorgeous suits was, well, that," Riley commented absently.

"An equally gorgeous body?" Llewellyn offered. Seeing the sudden flush on the face of the other woman, she added, "Oh, it's all right to say it, dear. We're admiring it as an art form."

"Is that what we're doing?" Riley asked mildly.

"Well, I know I am," Llewellyn nodded. Chandler's hips described another, suggestive circle.

"You're what?" Riley asked distractedly, sitting up a little straighter to better her view. Kent did the same.

"Admiring it," the pathologist repeated.

"Oh yes," Riley confirmed with a soft sigh of satisfaction. "Definitely that." 

Miles gritted his teeth and reached for his ginger ale.

***

Chandler was less than pleased to be separated from his new-found friends and wasted no time in rounding on his DS once Miles had shepherded him back to their table.

"Honestly, Miles, I don't know what you expect! You're always telling me I should make more of an effort with my social life and now that I am, all you can do is criticise!" 

"Stripping half-naked and snogging strangers isn't exactly what I had in mind," Miles muttered darkly, his expression openly disapproving. 

"Who was snogging strangers?" Chandler's hands busied themselves re-buttoning his shirt. 

"You were!" chorused the others.

"I did no such thing!"

"Oh, you did, Guv!" Mansell nodded vigorously. "Your tongue was so far down that bird’s throat it's a wonder it didn't come out of her..." Riley clipped him sharply around the ear. "Ow!"

"What was her name then?" Miles asked Chandler. 

"Whose name?"

"The girl you were kissing!"

"I wasn't kissing her," Chandler insisted with a scowl. "She was kissing me."  

"Her name?"

"Look, this is ridiculous."

Miles wasn't about to let the matter drop.  "You don't remember, do you?" 

"Of course I do!" Chandler retorted crossly. "It was..." he thought carefully, "Melanie."

"Felicity," Kent muttered.

"Felicity." Chandler threw his DC a look of gratitude which Kent resolutely refused to acknowledge. 

Llewellyn cradled Chandler’s head in her hands and gently turned his face towards her.  

"Let me look at you, Joe," she said softly, scrutinising the man's face intently.

Chandler's blue eyes narrowed in displeasure as he bore the inspection with ill-concealed impatience.

"See how dilated his pupils are," Llewellyn remarked with a frown. Everybody stared, further adding to Chandler's discomfort. "That's not normal,” the pathologist continued. “Either he's taken something or someone’s slipped him a mickey."

Patience exhausted, the object of her attention squirmed from her grasp and stepped back, eying her warily.

"There's no way he'd do drugs," Miles said emphatically, staring intently at his boss's face.

"Of course I wouldn't!" Chandler was clearly affronted by the suggestion. "I'm not stupid!"

“No one said you were,” Miles said to placate him.  

"You know what?” Chandler said abruptly. “I'm going to sing again!" His chin lifted belligerently and there was fire in his eyes.

"For crying out loud, why?” Miles asked wearily. 

"Because it's liberating and invigorating," Chandler's voice was passionately enthusiastic, "and exciting and," he stopped to consider further, a hand stealing to press against his stomach, 'vaguely nauseating."

Miles' eyebrows headed for his hairline. 

Chandler shifted uncomfortably, the hand now describing little circles in an attempt to alleviate the growing discomfort. "Actually, more than a little nauseating." His face lost all its colour. "Christ!" He looked despairingly at his DS. Miles grabbed his arm and steered him in the direction of the men’s toilets. 

***

"Hand cream, that's nice," Chandler remarked, stopping in front of the last washbasin and reaching out a hand to the dispenser on the wall. Miles caught his arm and pulled him in the direction of the door.

"But I haven't used the hand cream yet," Chandler complained, his face creasing into a frown. He sounded almost forlorn, which only served to stiffen Miles' resolve.

"That does it. You're going home. Now."

"But I'm enjoying myself," Chandler countered, clearly aggrieved. "Why must I go home if I'm enjoying myself?"

Miles stared at him incredulously. 

"Because that's the problem! You're not yourself! You _never_ enjoy yourself. Well, never when you're in a place like this with the likes of us. You need to go home before you do something you'll regret."

Not that singing "Heartbreak Hotel" whilst showing off his six-pack hadn’t already constituted something of a crossing of the proverbial Rubicon, but Miles wasn't about to admit that to his DI now. He tugged again on Chandler's arm but the man made no attempt to move. If anything, Chandler's frown seemed to deepen.

"Why would I do that? I don't think I'd do that at all."

The frown was replaced by a look of steely determination as he shook off his DS's hand and crossed his arms in front of his chest.  "I'm not going home. I'm going to stay and enjoy myself. I'm going to sing again."

Under different circumstances it would have been laughable - his DI acting like a petulant child - but given that Miles had no idea what substance Joe had taken, nor what the consequences of it would be, beyond this almost-total removal of the man's inhibitions, he could find no humour in the situation.

"And that attitude is precisely why I'm taking you home. You're not yourself."

"I've not even had dessert!"

Miles rubbed a weary hand over his face and fought the urge to swear. Inspiration came to him in a flash of brilliance.

"Do you have ice-cream at home?"

Joe brightened visibly.

"Yes, of course. Bourbon Vanilla."

"Of course you do," Miles acknowledged wearily. Of course it had to be _Bourbon_ vanilla. Not _regular_ vanilla like ordinary people. "So how about I get you a bowl of that once we're home."

Chandler paused to consider the proposal. Miles gritted his teeth and slowly counted to ten.

"Agreed."

Miles' sighed audibly. He held the door open and gestured for Joe to go through it. "After you, sir."

***

They were met in the restaurant by Buchan and Llewellyn, the former clutching their coats, the latter holding an empty syringe.

"In my day, girls carried lipstick and a mirror in their handbags," Miles observed dryly. 

"I'll need a blood sample to send to toxicology," Llewellyn explained as Miles sat Joe down then positioned himself in front of the man to afford the doctor some privacy in which to work. "If his drink was spiked, we'll need to know with what," Llewellyn concluded.

"And by whom," Miles added, his voice rough with anger. 

"Already on it, sir," Kent assured him as he joined the group and ranged himself beside Miles to further shield Chandler from the room's other occupants. He gestured towards the bar. Mansell was in discussion with the bartender and a smartly-dressed man Miles assumed must be the restaurant's manager. At a nearby table, Riley was questioning the waiter who had tended their table. Returning his attention to Chandler, Miles watched as the man rolled up his sleeve and held his arm out to the doctor. "He doesn't like the sight of his own blood."

"Look away, Joe," Llewellyn instructed softly. Chandler complied without demure. Miles and the pathologist exchanged meaningful glances.      

"Where's his glass?" Miles asked, looking around.

Kent held up a plastic bag containing the object in question which earned him a smile from his DS. "Good man."

"Ow!"

"Baby!" Llewellyn chided softly as she drew the sample of blood and then pressed a swab over the puncture wound in Joe's arm. "It's just a little prick."

"As the actress said to the bishop," Miles muttered under his breath, drawing dirty looks from the others. "Christ! I'm only trying to lighten the mood!" 

Chandler pulled his arm from Llewellyn's grasp and held it protectively to his chest, announcing with righteous indignation, "It still hurt!"

Miles sighed audibly. "Lets get you home." He held up Joe's coat and the other man shrugged into it with obvious reluctance. 

"I hope she's not coming," Joe said in an aggrieved whisper that was still loud enough for them all to hear. Llewellyn had to fight to hide her smile.

"I'll take him," Kent offered. "It's on my way." At the incredulous look from his DS, he blushed furiously before amending his statement to "well, not far off."

"Miles is taking me home," Chandler announced decisively, settling his collar with a deft flick and running elegant fingers through his hair to smooth it into place.

"Perhaps it's starting to wear off?" Buchan stated optimistically.  

"He's promised me ice-cream."

Three heads swivelled in the direction of DS Miles.

"What?" Miles snapped angrily. "I had to say something! He was going to sing again!"

"Can I?" Chandler asked eagerly. "I'd like that."

His request was met with a chorus of nos and he scowled unhappily at the others.

"Fine! I'll go home."

"Let me know if there's any change in his condition," Llewellyn murmured to Miles.

The older man nodded fervently. "Oh, believe me, you'll be the first to know." The doctor put a hand on his arm. "Ray, if he develops difficulty with his breathing or loses consciousness, call 999."

Miles' stomach lurched.

Seeing the concern on the man's face, Llewellyn added, "I'm not saying he will, but if he does, don't wait for me. Okay?"

Miles found the quiet words deeply unsettling. "Should I take him to hospital now? Get his stomach pumped or something?"

Llewellyn shook her head. "I don't think we need do anything quite so drastic yet. The symptoms he's exhibiting are more consistent with a recreational drug than anything more sinister. He's lucid and unaggressive, albeit uninhibited, and if that's the worst effect of whatever it is that he's taken, he won't thank us if he wakes up tomorrow in a hospital bed feeling like someone's tried to turn him inside out with a crochet hook." 

"Right then," Miles said, glancing away. It was shocking how relieved he felt to hear the words. The hand remained on his arm.

"He shouldn't be alone tonight."

Miles rolled his eyes because it was easier to do that then let his concern show any other way. "I am so going to get it in the neck from the missus over this," he muttered exasperatedly.

Llewellyn patted his arm and let go. They exchanged hurried goodbyes and then took their leave, Miles steering Chandler unobtrusively with a discreet hand to the small of his back. Kent watched them depart then let out a soft sigh of disappointment. "I have ice-cream," he murmured disconsolately.

Llewellyn nudged him affectionately and waggled the blood sample in front of his face.

"Come on, Birthday Boy. If you want to chauffeur someone, you can take me back to the lab."

***

"Let's get you into bed." Miles steered the younger man in the direction of the bedroom, much to Chandler's annoyance.

"Look, I'm not a child. I can manage." But he did not shrug off the other man's hand and Miles was grateful for that. Much like the lounge, the bedroom was immaculate and impersonal. The bedside table carried no personal effects, the cream walls no photographs or artwork.

_Vanilla._

"I really shouldn't be surprised," Miles muttered to himself.

"No, you shouldn't," Chandler agreed, misunderstanding. "I do wish you wouldn't underestimate me. And I need to shower."

"You can do that in the morning."

"No, I need to do it now."

"Why?"

From the dull flush that coloured Joe's cheeks, Miles would have sworn the man was embarrassed by the question.

"It's... complicated," Chandler said slowly, "And I don't need to explain it to you."

A hand lifted to rub at his temple and Miles knew better than to push further. "Alright, alright, just don't lock the door." That earned him a glare. "Look, if you get into difficulty, I don't want to have to break it down to get to you."

"Oh," the annoyance drained from Chandler's face.

"Well, go on then, if you're so determined," Miles gestured towards the bathroom.

Chandler needed no further encouragement, already in the process of stripping off his jacket as he walked towards the en-suite, his gait lacking something of its usual, lithe grace.

"Five minutes and then I'm coming in to get you," Miles warned through the bathroom door. He listened to the sounds within, only relaxing when he heard the shower start. Fishing in his pocket, the first phone he pulled out was Mansell's. "Serves you right," he muttered to the absent man. Slipping the iphone into an inside pocket he retrieved his own phone and called Judy.

Despite the phone being answered on the third ring (he'd known she wouldn't be asleep, waiting for him and no doubt worrying) the call took a lot longer than he'd anticipated and he ended it with a deep sense of dissatisfaction and a muttered curse. Much as expected, she'd not been pleased to hear he wouldn't be home that night. Worse, he wasn't even sure that she'd believed his explanation. What did she think he was doing? Having an affair? He huffed in amusement at the absurdity of the idea.

"Like I'd have the energy," he murmured wearily to the empty room. Above the noise of the shower he couldn't hear any other sounds from the bathroom and he was suddenly assaulted by a wave of panic.

"Joe?"

No reply. He crossed the room in three strides and barreled into the bathroom, slamming to a halt at the sight that greeted him. Chandler was standing under the shower, head bowed and shivering and sporting an impressive erection. Turning his back, Miles hid his embarrassment behind words that were considerably harsher than he had intended.

"Bloody Nora! Warn a bloke if you're going to point that at him!"

Chandler dropped his hands to his groin to cover his genitals and turned an aggrieved expression towards the interloper.

"You didn't knock! How am I supposed to warn you if you don't even knock?" 

"I told you five minutes and then I'd be coming in." Miles resisted the urge to turn as he spoke. "Do you need some time to take care of that?"

"I'm trying." The note of frustration in the quiet words set alarm bells ringing in Miles' head. "Usually it goes away if I take a cold shower." Miles found himself frozen in place.  "But this time it won't," Chandler continued unhappily, frustration giving way to despair. "I can't make it go away."

"Christ!" Miles muttered under his breath. "So have a wank!"

 A heartbeat and then, "I can't. That would be wrong. It's dirty."

"Dirty?" Miles couldn't keep the shock from his voice. "Who told you that?"

"My nanny."

"Your nanny told you that masturbation was dirty?"  

Joe raised both arms to cover his face and nodded.

"Christ! And you believed her?"

Another nod.

"How old were you?" Anger was making Miles pushier than he knew he had a right to be and he forced himself to take a breath to calm himself down. This wasn't Joe's fault. Neither was it fair to grill the man about it when he was clearly in no state to guard his words. 

"I don't know. Ten? Eleven?"

"Jesus Christ! No wonder you're so screwed up!"

The look of anguish on Joe's wan face made Miles immediately regret his thoughtless words. "Look, there's nothing dirty about giving yourself relief. It's alright to touch yourself."

"Do we have to talk about this now?" Joe asked unhappily, shivering even more violently. "I really don't want to talk about this now."

_Cold shower._

The import of Joe's words finally penetrated Miles' shocked consciousness. Swearing softly, Miles stepped forward and thrust his hand under the spray, trying not to be offended by the way Joe flinched at his approach. The water was freezing. Shutting it off, he snatched a towel from the heated rail and held it out to the other man. "Dry yourself off."

Joe took the towel and clutched it to his chest but he would not look up and would not meet Ray's gaze. Feeling suddenly awkward, Miles backed away.

"I'll see you outside. Alright?"   

Joe nodded slowly, his eyes still downcast.

Out of earshot, Miles swore vehemently, quietly cursing the faceless woman who had so damaged the child Joe had been and the adult he was now. Then he headed for the kitchen. By the time he returned to the lounge, Joe had emerged from the bathroom, but his head was still bowed and his eyes still downcast. The towel had been wrapped securely around Joe's narrow hips but, even from a distance, Miles could see that the fabric still tented over the man's groin. Sighing softly, he held out the bowl of ice-cream.

"Here."

Joe took it from his hand but made no attempt to eat. Miles found his friend's silent distress deeply disturbing. Not for the first time he silently cursed the bastard who'd spiked Joe's drink and rendered him so painfully vulnerable.   

"Bed, then, eh Joe? You'll feel better after you've had some sleep."

He slipped the bowl from unresponsive fingers and placed it on the coffee table, smiling to himself as Joe roused enough to slip a coaster under it.

"Come on, then. Let's get you to bed."

Joe followed him into the bedroom and pulled back the duvet before hanging the towel on the back of the door and climbing awkwardly into the bed. Cream sheets and a cream duvet cover, Miles noted absently. Vanilla. No surprises there then. The lack of pyjamas was a bit of a shock. Funny that. He'd always imagined Joe as a pyjama sort of bloke...

"Try to sleep," he said gently and turned off the light. A hand slipped out from under the duvet to turn the lamp on the bedside table on and something twisted painfully in Miles' chest at the thought of the little boy in the troubled man who was still afraid of the dark. The lamp illuminated a solitary tear as it tracked down Joe's cheek.  

"Are you okay?" Miles asked gently.

"It hurts," Joe murmured. He turned his head away, his cheeks aflame.

"What does?" Miles asked, suddenly concerned.

"You know. It."

And just as suddenly, Miles understood. "I'm sure it does. It's probably a side-effect of the drug." He had to take a deep breath before he could carry on. "Joe, it really is okay to touch yourself. Really. You'll feel better afterwards."

"It's wrong." The words, spoken with such hopeless certainty, were laced with disgust. "It's wrong to touch yourself there."

Miles had to struggle to keep his mounting anger from spilling over into his voice. "So how do you manage when you take a leak?"

"That's different! That's... natural."

"So is touching yourself to give yourself pleasure," Miles insisted. "That's natural too." When that got no response, he gently probed again. "Joe?"

"I can't. I just... I've tried. In the past. I can't."

The pain in his friend's voice was more than Miles could bear, the import of his words almost beggaring belief. Together, they made the decision that much easier to make. 

"Joe, do you trust me?"

No hesitation. "Yes."

"Will you let me touch you?"

A pause this time, drawing out into the silence that had descended around them, until, "yes."

"I won't hurt you." Miles had no idea why he'd said that. Of course he wasn't going to hurt Joe. Except there was nothing 'of course' about this. Who knew what Joe expected to happen? Who knew how he would react?

"I know that."

Miles' breath released on a sigh and he offered up a silent prayer that he wasn't about to make the biggest mistake of his life and further damage this already-damaged man whom he respected so much and cared about even more. Then he drew back the duvet.

Joe flinched and turned his head away. "I don't want to see."

The mattress sagged as Miles sat on the edge of the bed and held his arms open. "Come here then."

Joe moved slowly into his embrace, pressing his cheek against Miles chest and clenching his eyes shut.

"Easy," Miles murmured into shower-damp, wheat-dark hair as his hand lifted to rub gentle circles on Joe's back. When the man's breathing had settled into a less erratic cadence, he carefully closed his other hand around Joe's erection. “Easy.”  Joe stiffened with a sharp intake of breath. "It's alright," Miles reassured him, "you're safe with me." He gently flexed his wrist, easing the sensitive skin back and forth with gentle but firm strokes. Joe moaned against his chest and slid his arms around his waist, fingers clutching with unconscious force. He'd have bruises, Miles thought idly. God, he hoped Judy wouldn't notice them. "It's alright, Joe," he crooned softly.

When he brushed his thumb over the sensitive glans, Joe whimpered in helpless arousal, the sound causing Miles' chest to tighten. "It's alright" he repeated, a litany of reassurance. "It's alright." It was shocking how little time it took for Joe's body to spasm into orgasm, the blond head rocking back on a broken cry. Miles held him tighter then, even as he used his handkerchief to wipe away the evidence of the man's pleasure from his body, knowing that the fastidious Chandler would not want to wake up with semen dried on his stomach (even if he’d sleep on soiled sheets, which Miles doubted.)  He slid the handkerchief surreptitiously back into his pocket. "All done now."

When Joe eventually pulled from his embrace, Miles let him go, tucking the duvet carefully around his body. "Do you think you'll be able to sleep now?" he asked quietly. Dazed blue eyes, dull with exhaustion, lifted to his own and he found himself absurdly grateful for this simple affirmation that their relationship had not been irreparably damaged by what he'd just done. 

"Yes," Joe answered softly. "Thank you."

That brought an affectionate smile to Miles' face. Always so polite, his DI. Christ only knew what the morning would bring, but they'd deal with the fallout when they had to. He certainly wasn't about to pre-empt that reckoning now.

Only...

… he'd never been unfaithful to Judy.

_Did this count?_

He didn't think it should. He certainly didn't want it to. He released his breath in the softest of sighs and forced himself to concentrate on Joe's reply. "Good. I'm glad."

Chandler swallowed hard, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he laid a careful hand on Miles' arm.

"Stay?"

Miles cleared his throat painfully and answered as gently as he could, the only way he could.

"Of course I'll stay. I'll kip on the couch." 

He rose from the bed and walked from the room and did not dare look back.

***

Miles took refuge in the bathroom.

After splashing his face with cold water he put the seat of the toilet down and sank down on it, dropping his head into his hands with a weary sigh.

What had he been _thinking_?

Every way he looked at the situation, it was clear that he'd screwed it up.  

He'd wanked his DI.

"I must be out of my mind," he muttered disconsolately to the empty room. And it wasn't like he could stay in the bathroom all night either.

It was something of a relief to find the door to Joe's bedroom still shut when he finally plucked up the courage to emerge from his self-imposed exile, but he felt sick to the pit of his stomach when he saw the pillow, sheet, duvet and toothbrush (still wrapped in cellophane) that had been left in a neat pile on one end of the sofa. He'd never thought of himself as being a coward, but he did so now. Sighing unhappily he made up the bedding and tried to ignore how many times the light flickered on and off in the bedroom through the gap beneath the door.

***

Sounds of retching woke Miles from a dreamless sleep and he was halfway across the room before he even understood why.

"Joe?" he called as he knocked on the bathroom door, thought better of waiting for a reply, and then walked it. Joe was kneeling on the tiled floor, clad now in a grey t-shirt and matching sweatpants, curled over the toilet bowl and retching miserably. Miles crouched at his side. Extending a hand to cradle the man's forehead, he gently rubbed his back with the other.

"Don't fight it," he advised softly. "It'll hurt less if you just let it happen."

Panicked eyes lifted briefly to his own and then skittered swiftly away.

"You'll be fine," Miles said calmly with more confidence than he was feeling. "I've got you."

When Joe had finally regained control over his recalcitrant stomach, Miles released his hold.

"Better?"

The blond head nodded slowly.

Miles eased himself down to sit on the bathroom floor beside his friend. "Better out than in, eh?" he offered with a sympathetic smile.

Joe gazed disconsolately across the bathroom and nodded again. "Thank you."

"No need," Miles murmured, and meant it. "What are friends for?"

Chandler's head dropped at that and Miles instinctively knew why.

"I know... this isn't... normal," Joe said carefully. "That _I'm_ not normal."

Miles started to protest but Joe waved him into silence, a look of pained apprehension accompanying the gesture.

"But I do want to change, if I can."

Miles heart ached for him. "Oh, I don't know. I quite like you as you are."

"Really?" Joe asked, his face lifting in surprise.

Miles continued to gaze at him.

"Oh," Joe said contritely. "Joke. Sorry." He lifted a hand to rub at his temple, his cheeks flushed.

"I wasn't joking," Ray said quietly. "I do. You're brave and intelligent and principled and loyal." Incredulity and embarrassment warred on Joe's handsome face as he stared at his DS.  "Best boss I've ever had," Miles finished, "And I've had a few in my time, I can tell you."

Joe swallowed hard before murmuring, "Thank you for that."

"But that's not to say I don't want more for you," Miles continued. "I'd like to see you settled and happy with a nice girl," he glanced sideways to see how his words would be received "or a nice bloke."

"I'm not gay," Joe said wearily, "despite what happened earlier."

Miles was shocked at how relieved he felt that Joe could even speak about what had happened earlier. He'd worried that the man might pretend it had never happened. "You sure?" he asked Joe gently. "It's not like you've had a lot of experience either way."

Chandler's expression spoke volumes. His next words were a revelation. "I'm not a virgin, if that’s what you think."

Miles wasn't sure how to take that one. He decided on an equally ambiguous, "Well then."

Which seemed to placate Joe. "I like women. I just don't know how to make them like me."

"Kent'll be gutted," Miles remarked philosophically. Chandler ignored the remark. "You seemed to be getting on all right with Melanie this evening," Miles pointed out.

"Felicity," Joe corrected, rolling his eyes when Miles smiled at him, adding in an aggrieved tone, "I do remember her name."

"Did you get her number?"

Joe was crest-fallen. "No."

Miles' brow furrowed. "Who had your jacket while you were singing?"

"My jacket?" Chandler thought carefully. "She did, I think."

"Been through the pockets yet?" Miles asked nonchalantly.

"Hardly. Why? Do you think...?" Joe's words trailed off as he considered the possibilities.

"The way she was kissing you? I'd make book on it," Miles answered. "One way to find out." He nodded towards the door. Joe rose to his feet. Miles remained where he was and held up a hand which Joe took without hesitation. "Bum's gone numb," Miles explained as Joe helped him to his feet, which brought a smile to the younger man's face. "Brush your teeth and I'll meet you at the closet."

Chandler's smile broadened. “Inside or out of it?”

Miles had to laugh at that. Figuring he’d quit while he was ahead, he headed for the bedroom. 

The note was in the inside pocket.

"Told you," Miles said with what he felt was a commendable lack of smugness. He watched as Joe continued to gaze at the telephone number with a mixture of disbelief and wonderment. "You going to call her then?"

"Well, not right now," Joe consulted his watch. "It's half past four."

"Don't remind me," Miles muttered with a wince.

"But, yes. I think I will." Joe smiled at Miles. "Thank you, Ray."

"For what?"

"For believing in me." Joe's blue eyes were luminous, open and unguarded.

Miles shrugged dismissively. "You looked gorgeous up on that stage. She'd have been a fool to pass you up."

Again, Joe flushed with embarrassment. "That's what she said. That I was gorgeous." He smiled in warm remembrance.

"And if you do that every time you receive a compliment, she'll find you irresistible," Miles added.

Chandler blushed to the very tips of his ears.

Miles eyed him affectionately. “Fancy an awkward hug?"

Joe's face was a picture. "I didn't think you went in for that sort of thing."

"Yes, but even _I_ was thinking about it this time," Miles admitted.

This time, there was no awkwardness in their contact. 

***


End file.
